Worker of Shadow and Light

. . . but her mind snags on something. Something brings her panic to a screeching halt, the currents of her fearful thoughts swirling into a hidden eddy, circling around a precious discovery.

A pattern. A. . . quality.

This did not feel like rape.

The bodies of the men are all beautiful, each horned mask unique but exquisite--expensive-- and their demonic body paint precise. Artistic. Theatrical. The artistry of them from head to toe is, she has to admit, fucking sexy.

Finally they encircle her, still silent. She looks up at the one who seems to be the leader, past his hard cock and into the cruel mask leering down at her. She can see no eyes--just orbs of reflective black behind the eyeholes.

Without a word, he steps forward, collects a fistful of her hair and pushes his big cock against her lips. Her mind wants to resist in every way, indignance rising like a tsunami. But her body -- her body opens, and her mouth gapes for him, welcoming the meaty shaft as it pushes down her throat.

She drools and hears a calm inner voice encouraging her. "Notice the pattern, dear girl. He's playing a part." The actor with the body of a Greek god has stopped short of gagging her, even though he doesn't need to. If he wanted to, he could really hurt her. He is forceful but. . . cautious. Attentive to her response.

No, this does not feel like rape. That much she cannot deny. So what is this?

Then they are upon her--hands all over her body, melting into her skin like tattoos. So many hands. So many tongues, snaking out of artfully designed masks to leave soft and cool tracks across her skin. And cocks--so many cocks.

They take their time with her in that sunny but darkening meadow. With a cock in her throat, hands and tongues all across her in the warm sun, her body responds in a way that feels surprisingly like ... comfort. Heat rising from her core envelops her like a sweater, cradles her. Small details pervade her consciousness -- the flickering shadow of a tree branch on her hands in front of her. The rhythm of many lungs breathing like the swelling and crashing of the ocean tides. The distant coo of one lonely owl in the distance. All feel both bigger and yet smaller than herself.

When the first cock slides into her, she shivers despite herself, an animalistic moan echoing from deep inside. It moves slowly at first, gently, but quickly picks up speed, and her hips begin mindlessly moving with it. Instinct.

She understands.

This is a gift. This is Nick. She is bound like Nick binds her in some way most nights, and which she's come to expect and look forward to.

The beautiful forest, the beautiful men. This is Nick's gift to her. Something in her needed to dance with her demons. To surrender to them, to give herself willingly to them as to a pack of hungry dogs.

And Nick knows that. Somehow, Nick knows it and has arranged to give it to her.

The thought sends her over the edge and the first orgasm of the day rips through her, her animal howl reverberating in the wooded canopy..

The demons laugh at her release. They growl and bark, and shout in pleasure, moving her body to suit themselves. None of them utter word as they fuck her like beasts, two-at-a time, filling her pussy and belly with countless loads of cum. When they cum in her mouth, they pinch her nose shut, making sure she swallows as much as she can.

After the first hour she disassociates, her body no longer her own. It belongs to the forest and these creatures that run wild in it. They scream in ecstasy as they grunt and roar and use her body, awakening ancient pleasures she's never experienced. She's never been owned like this before, with all these hard cocks and hard muscles. And she needs it. Suddenly she needs these things to be done to her so badly.

Like this. . . like this please. . . like this forever. Flying. Just a toy. A toy to used and enjoyed.

She feels a pressure on the tender entry of her ass and it snaps her back to clarity. Her throat and pussy are thick and slimy with cum, but only tongues have swirled in her ass--this is new and she has not been warmed up or stretched at all. The pressure grows as the cock presses insistently on her sensitive little hole. She can feel it is well-lubed, though, and it is taking its time.

She realizes she only thinks of it as "the cock." It isn't a demon, or even a man. It is a cock that needs to fuck her ass. And she isn't Stacey or even a woman. She is an animal mating with these animals. It feels like an electrically-beautiful truth. She no longer tries to restrain her drool and it pours out of her mouth like a faucet. She looks up at the demon mask leering down at her, its owner fucking her throat with abandon, and beyond him a few gentle wisps of cloud delicately skating across the warm blue sky.

Perfect. This is perfect. I'm a toy bringing joy. A toy bringing joy.

It is more than a thought. It is more than a feeling. It is a mantra. It is a sudden spotlight on a spiritual emptiness that has always been in her, and now the deep void gapes wide open in her mind's eye. It is terrifying and thrilling all at once and she feels herself fly forward into it greedily, hungrily, eagerly, a spiritual peace settling inside her. It is like, finally, awakening from a long and dreamless sleep.

With a banshee scream she shoves her ass back hard onto that needy cock, sliding it balls deep into her, in a single thrust. She grunts, struggling to breathe, eyes bugging out as she copes with the suddenly full sensation. Then her hips rear back and slam down again, moving on their own, unstoppable. She is watching her own body do what it needs, guided only by instinct, without regard for her conscious thought. Her conscious mind is along for the ride.

Stacey feels free. She notices tears on her cheeks and realizes she is weeping with joy and laughing into the cock that fucks her throat.

For another hour her spirit soars as they fuck her slimy, numb, and raw. She laughs and screams and babbles as she drools and grunts "Toy. Toy. Toy. Toy. Toy," like the mindless rutting beast she has become.

Eventually, wordlessly, the demons all melt away back into the forest, leaving her head down, floating in a sea of peaceful exhaustion, spiritual gratitude, drool, tears, cum and sweat.

She listens to her own breath, panting and smiling. Staring sightlessly at the grass.

She has no idea what time it is. She doesn't care.

Someone else could still come along. She doesn't care.

She could die right now and have lived a better life than she ever thought possible.

So free. She feels so free. At last, so free. She just wants this forever.

------

She awakes with a start and looks around, her mind whirling. She is in Nick's bed, in Nick's room, light falling gently across the sheets through the tall glass windows.

It is. . . morning?

She looks at the clock: yes. 7am.

With a rush, it all comes back: the dream--no, the memory--of everything that happened in the forest. The shackles, the demons, the fucking. . . the surrender. The throbbing tenderness in her pussy and ass is nothing against the leaping, glorious, flying feeling of that surrender she discovers is still swirling inside her. Delighted and curious, she explores the vastness of this new calm and finds that the peace of her release just goes on and on. Everything seems so. . . friendly now.

Stretching as she continues to awake, she brushes her fingertips across her pussy, expecting to feel cum crusted all down her thighs. But she is clean and smooth--Nick must have bathed her. She pushes a finger into herself, finding she is already wet and ready to be used. Of course, she smiles to herself. Perfect.

She feels so totally different now, as if she has travelled a thousand miles from who she was yesterday, and can barely make out the speck on the horizon that is the anxiety and crunchy concerns of the frightened Stacy she used to be.

She breathes slowly in and out, marveling as her lungs fill and empty, and feels like she is truly living--fully living--in her own body, like she never has before.

Sighing, she brings the finger to her mouth and tastes herself, as if for the first time. Her juices are heady, musky, and sweet. Delicious.

She muses with curious delight. Who is this person that feels so calm, so happy--who wakes up wet and ready to be used? If she isn't racked with Stacey's concerns, who does that leave behind? Once that old garbage has been cast aside, what is the truth of the soul that has been revealed?

A smile spreads like a slow sunrise across her face, and the word sails out from deep inside her, true as a soft coast wind.

She whispers her name, her purpose, her spiritual path into the sunlight and the empty room.

"Toy."

The word comes out low and breathy, its deep vibrations full and rich, like her voice sometimes sounds after an hour or more of good, hard fucking. But she just awoke and feels refreshed, not exhausted. The thought that this could just be her speaking voice now feels. . . just right.

She hears the distant clank of pans and dishes which can only be Nick making breakfast in the kitchen. Her stomach rumbles. She rises from the bed and heads toward the sound. Crossing through the living room, she watches herself in the tall mirror glide effortlessly across the space like a perfect ballerina.

Of course, she thinks. It was never about trying harder. It was always about letting go.

She rounds the corner into the kitchen, and there he is.

His back to the door, Nick is working at something on the stove. His black T-shirt stretches tight across the muscles of his back and arms, black silk pajama pants shimmering as he shifts his weight while tending to his cooking.

For a second, she is a fly trapped in amber.

This is the man that took her in three months ago. The man her heart and body were called to serve, the man she compulsively threw herself at the feet of, the man to whom she had submitted completely.

Well, she muses silently, What was "completely" for her at the time.

There is so much more to her now.

It seems to her that there is so much more to everything now. She rests her hand against the door jam and its smooth texture feels at once familiar and completely new. Light flowing in through the large windows seems to warm and enrich each surface it spills onto like she's never felt. The salty aroma of bacon dances in her nose and lungs unlike she has never savored it before.

And the man at the center of the room seems. . . so much more than a man now.

Her eyes unfocus as shards of yesterday come to her in flashback. His eyes as he closed the manacles on her wrists, and--this is new--his voice soothing her as he unchains her, scoops her up in a blanket, and carries her home. Snapshot sensations of a warm bathtub, soapy sponging, a soft towel. All accompanied by the soft, rumbling, cooing of his deep, calming voice.

That voice. . .

"Good morning"

She gasps, coming back to the moment. Suddenly she realizes that she is naked--it never occurred to her to put clothes on, and the fact doesn't trouble her.

He has turned and is looking her up and down, slowly wiping his hands with a small, crimson towel.

She doesn't know what to say. She notices this doesn't bother her either. She just. . . doesn't have a need right now. To say anything. To do anything. She just loves being here with him. She even loves that she is naked. It feels right.

The moment stretches out, filled with potential and uncertainty--none of which tugs at her, she is surprised and delighted to realize. She doesn't know what's next. And that's O.K.. She just breathes happily, admiring his face, his body, the way his own breathing softly lifts and lowers his muscular chest.

They stand regarding each other for a few heartbeats, as if brand new to each other. A calm smile blooms on his face, and it is the most beautiful thing in the world to her. As if she has been waiting at the gate of the moment, and he has just opened it wide, welcoming her in.

Slowly, he gestures to the table by the window and says simply, "Have a seat, I'll bring you breakfast." His words cup her in gentle but immeasurable strength, carrying her across the room like a little bird rescued from a fallen nest, and gently depositing her at the table.

"How are you?" he asks, wanting--really wanting, she can tell--to know the truth.

What can she say? Spacious? Transformed? Grateful? Awake? Free? Words are so. . . tiny. . compared to the experience she now has of being who she is.

"Amazed. . ." she finally breathes, her low and full voice accompanying what she knows is a lingering and doe-eyed look at him.

"Good." His smile widens as he fixes her with an intense, inquisitive gaze. She doesn't know what he's looking for, but she just looks back calmly, an open book for him to read as he will. After a moment, he nods and his whole body relaxes, as if something unknown has now been settled. In a deeper voice, he repeats, "Good," then turns away to grab two plates and bring them to the table.

He sinks into the chair across from her, plates of steaming food between them, delicious smells of eggs, bacon, spices and toast filling the air.

Unbidden, a word rises up out of her like a bubble, floating on her breath until it pops in the air between them. "Why?"

He tilts his head to one side, squinting slightly. Amused? She can't tell.

"Why what?" he asks playfully, scooping a forkful of food into his mouth and leaning back.

"I mean," she asks, slowly picking up her own fork, fascinated by the light glinting off of it. "How did you know?"

His brow furrows as he chews, then asks "Know what?"

She slowly scoops at her food, each bit of moisture on it glistening in the sun, each crumbling spill of eggs and potatoes off her fork a delightful little avalanche. It would seem hurried to her, to manage the fork and answer at the same time, so she pauses and finishes her question.

"How did you know it would be. . ."

She pauses, feeling that she's about to cross a threshold into a new life, from which she can never return. But absolutely no part of her wants to hold back, and the words inside her shine with the truth of the sun. They come out without pause or effort.

". . . so good."

Though phrased as a question, her words make a statement. You know me. You know what I need better than I know myself. I would never have chosen to go through that. It terrified me. But you worked so hard, you. . . risked everything. . . to give it to me. You knew what I needed to experience, exactly how I needed it, and it could have broken us both. But it was beautiful. And here we are.

Finally, she brings the food to her lips, and fills her mouth slowly with its savory, warm, heavy, deliciousness.

He winces quickly, then breathes deeply, leaning back to regard her fully.

"I. . . I don't know," he says finally, looking down at the table. "I don't know how to explain it. Dreams. Feelings. Intuition. The nagging of my own--" a wry smirk flashes across his face, then disappears, "--my own demons."

She nods. It makes sense that the drive for something so profound wouldn't come from a simple source. It would have to come from places deep below the surface.

Something catches her eye and her heart leaps into her throat--"Sir! You're hurt!"

The knuckles of his right hand are swollen, scabby, and bruised. The sight rattles her to her core, the suffering worse than if she herself had sustained an injury.

"Oh," he chuckles, holding up his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"What happened?"

He scoops another forkful of food into his mouth, chewing as if to buy time before answering.

She has suddenly lost her appetite. For him to be injured and for her to have missed it is. . . weirdly wrenching. It almost makes her queasy.

Finally he swallows, glances out the window, sighs heavily, and leans forward on clasped hands. When he speaks, it comes out slowly, as if he is searching for the words and only offers them up as he finds them.

"I knew. . . what you needed. I don't know how. But I knew. And the conviction grew in me until I couldn't deny it anymore. You had demons to confront. More than that--you needed them to overtake you and discover they could not destroy you."

He winces again, staring down at his plate, as if lost in the memories of the day.

"I knew. . . I just knew somehow. . ." he heaves a great breath, trying to wrap language around mysterious things, "that once you faced those demons--once you realized that even with demons fucking you, nothing could really violate you--that you could dance with them, become more than what you were before. . . . transform, evolve somehow. Become a bigger version of yourself, in the release of what you feared.."

A silence stretches out then, as if he is exhausted from his efforts.

Low and silky, her words fill the space between them. "You were right, Sir. You were right about everything. . . . But Sir, what about that?" Her delicate finger reaches across to rest lightly on the angry redness of his wounds.

His eyes follow her hand, and he nods, then returns his gaze to hers.

"It's the hardest thing I've ever done, Stacey. Watching you go through that."

She blinks, surprised. He was watching?

As if reading her mind, he nods. "I was never far away, little one. I watched it all. I knew I couldn't tell you why we were there beforehand--that would have just made it a titillating afternoon. I knew. . . ." He heaves again, looking out the window, the sunlight brightening the intenseness of his green eyes, as if charging them with more power when he returns his gaze to hers. "I knew if I'd comforted you, reassured you, that you wouldn't dance with your demons. . . .You'd just fuck a bunch of guys."

Pain is written all over him. But she still doesn't understand, so again she runs a lithe finger across his wounded knuckles.

He nods, understanding.

"Yeah, so. . .when you called out. When you were so afraid. When you thought you'd done something wrong. . . . It tore at me, Stacey. It tore at me worse than watching my wife give birth. I wanted more than anything to go and comfort you, but I knew I couldn't.

"So," he barks a humble laugh, gazing at his knuckles and slowly shaking his head, " . . . so I punched a tree. Like, a bunch of times." He lifts his eyes to hers, lips pursed, eyes sparkling in wry amusement. "I beat the shit out of that tree for you, Stacey."

She feels her heart both twist in compassion for his experience and lift in the fullness of understanding what he put himself through. For her. He took incredible risks, put himself through excruciating injury and pain, so that she could break through into the fuller experience of life that she was living now, from moment-to-delicious-moment.

The honor. Crashing into her like a tidal wave, she feels the honor that he has done her, with his insight, his care, even his restraint. How can she live to deserve such honor? What can she do, to be equal to it? How can she earn, even retroactively, this amazing gift?

The answer, she realizes, is pure in its roots of desire to serve him, as well as the selfish clarity that it is what will make her happiest for the rest of her days. Without a thought, she drifts down out of the chair to kneel next to him.

She lifts her eyes, feels the rightness of resting at his feet. This is where she belongs. This is where she can do the most good. This is where she can give her gifts to the world--to this man--and in so doing, continually expand herself to be more than she ever believed she could be.